Nightmares
by Little Cinch
Summary: Even in sleep Carol knew when the dream was starting. The quiet moment of peace is what told her something was terribly wrong. Rating is likely overkill - language and violence.
1. The Tombs

**Set the night after Daryl and Merle return to the prison in Season 3. There will likely be a second chapter at least, when the mood strikes. **

**Disclaimer: I do not own anything related to The Walking Dead. Be sad for me.**

* * *

_Even in sleep Carol knew when the dream was starting. She stood in the sun in the prison yard, the sharp mechanical smells of engine grease and gasoline overriding the warmer scent of dust and grass and sweat. There was a moment – a quiet moment of peace. She stood with her family in her home, and in that moment, she was happy. The happiness is what told her something was terribly wrong._

_She shifted and moaned, but couldn't wake herself up. Her stomach was heavy with dread. She tried to run, tried to stop it from happening again, but there was no way out. The sun shone down on them all, warm and beautiful, when she heard the first shout. She couldn't move. At Carl's cry, her family burst into action – screaming, running, shooting. Walkers fell, but far more did not. They flooded into the courtyard, far more than there had really been, but the dream was always worse._

_She screamed at them to stay together – not to split up or get separated. But even as she screamed, she did as she had always done. Following T-Dog, she gave him cover on his sprint to close the inner gate, shooting walker after walker far beyond the number that should have been been there. And the more she shot, the more that came._

_Behind her, she could hear the shouts of her family swallowed up by the moaning and snarling of the creatures. Ahead of her, T-Dog swam through an ocean of dead things to reach the gate. She tried to warn him, but her voice was drowned out by the noise of the monsters around them. As he latched the gate, it happened, as it always did. A walker made its way too close and tore a chunk of flesh from his shoulder. She screamed and screamed, but she could never save him. Anger and grief swamped her as she watched it happen once again._

_They ran. Ducking inside the nearest doorway, they disappeared into the dark. She cried out in fear. Here in the darkness the dream changed. She didn't recognize the tombs. The corridors went on forever, going this way and that with doors and stairs in all directions. She tried to get T-Dog to stop, but he dragged her on, his grip a vice on her wrist. Deeper and deeper into the darkness they went. She grew dizzy with the turns, spinning in the black. Walkers moaned behind every door and around every corner and the blaring of alarms echoed through the halls._

_She fought him harder as they grew closer to the place where it happened. She begged him to stop, to let her go, to let her end it before it got worse – before they reached that place. She didn't know the tombs, but somehow, she always knew when they got close. But all he ever said was that it was God's plan. God's plan._

_Kicking and screaming with tears on her face, she struggled to free herself. If she couldn't stop him from going, maybe she wouldn't have to watch this time. But it was too late. They had reached the place where it happened. The walkers appeared in the corridor in front of them, but instead of just a couple, it was a dozen. A hundred. More. She held his arm, tried to pull him back, but he ran toward them, shouting at her to go! But she couldn't move – either to help or to escape. T-Dog crashed into the herd, pushing them all into the wall, still screaming for her to run. All she could do was watch – again – as the monsters ripped into his flesh, tearing hunks of meat from his bones. Blood spurted and flowed, and T-Dog screamed in agony as he was torn to pieces in front of her. But all the while, his eyes were on her, wide and bulging, pleading with her for something he could never say. It was God's plan._

_The walkers swarmed over his body like maggots. Some of them spilled over the other side toward her, noticing her for the first time. Arms reaching, they came at her, but she could only stand and stare at T-Dog's mutilated body. They came closer, and she was afraid, knowing they would tear her apart and devour her, too. Bony fingers clawed at her, leaving bloody furrows in her skin. She gagged at the putrid breath in her face as the monsters snarled and snapped at her, biting away chunks of her body, a little bit at a time. She screamed from the fear and pain, but knew she couldn't save herself any more than she could save T. She was dying. The last thing she always saw was the face of her friend, his eyes filmy and yellow, as he lunged at her, ripping out her throat._

With a strangled gasp, she tore herself from sleep at last. Her face was wet with tears, and she shuddered as she tried to force down the sobs that were trying to break free. She could still feel their teeth, smell their rotten breath, and feel the terror as if the monsters were real – more than real, in that way nightmares have of clinging to you after waking. So she curled up into her pillow, shaking and gasping as she struggled to move past the fear.

When she'd been trapped in solitary for over a day, injured and exhausted with no food or water, she'd drifted in and out of consciousness more and more as time went on. Each time she would drift off, she was running again through the tombs, watching T-Dog die over and over. Two days ago, Daryl had found her and brought her back. She'd slept some through that first day back as she recovered, then more through the night. The nightmare followed her, and each time she would wake in a terror, not sure where she was or what was real. Each time she woke, she was alone and more afraid than the time before.

She covered her ears against the snarls and screams still echoing in her head and closed her eyes tightly, trying to force back the visions of blood and death. Tears still escaped, and she felt them burning hot trails sideways down her face.

Her eyes flew open and she scrambled back toward the wall when a noise startled her. There was just enough light filtering in from the high windows of the cell block to see a shadowed form in her doorway. Though her rational mind knew she was in no danger, the residual fear from the nightmare made her panic.

"You okay? What's wrong?" Daryl's low, rough voice cut through the blind terror, giving her a lifeline to cling to.

She tried to speak, but couldn't choke the words out past the lump in her throat. All that came out was a strangled sob.

"The fuck – you hurt?" He stepped into the cell and hurried to her, kneeling at the side of her bunk.

Her heart rate began to drop. No longer alone, she was able to wrestle the panic down. She shook her head to let him know she wasn't hurt, but still couldn't force words to come.

"Nightmare?"

She nodded, and though the fear was subsiding, the tears erupted again, flowing hot and silent down her cheeks.

"You want me to stay?"

She nodded again. She sat back against the wall and hugged her knees to her chest in an attempt to stop the shaking. Daryl sat on the edge of the bunk and hitched himself back to lean against the wall next to her. It was so dark, she couldn't see his face, but his posture was tense, as though he were uncomfortable – she didn't know if it was from her crying or from sitting together on her bunk. Sniffling, she tried to force the tears to stop. Even if he hated it, she was glad he was here. He'd come back. He'd left with his brother, but he came back. The hurt she'd suffered at finding out he'd left didn't matter anymore, because he came back.

"Gonna tell me what you was dreamin' about?"

She shrugged, knowing he would feel the movement even if he couldn't see her.

He didn't push her, and she appreciated that. She wiped her wet cheeks on her shoulders. "Been dreaming the same thing ever since..." She stopped. He waited patiently for her to continue.

"I keep dreaming of the tombs and T-Dog. He pulls me down there and won't let me save him. I know what's coming, but he won't stop." She took a steadying breath as more tears threatened. "I see him get torn apart by the walkers. Over and over, I see it, and I can't stop it. I watch him die, and then they come for me, too. That's when I wake up. It's always the same, every time."

Daryl was quiet for a moment, perhaps waiting to see if she would tell him more. Finally he said, "What happened to T shouldn't happen to nobody. 'M sorry you had to see it. Sorry it's givin' you nightmares."

She nodded and hugged her knees tighter.

He fidgeted a bit on the bunk next to her. "He was bit before you went in – he knew he was gonna die one way or the other. He chose to make his death matter, and that's more than most of us will likely get. What he did? He did it to help keep you alive, and I'll be forever fuckin' grateful for that. Way I see it, that makes him a goddamn hero."

Carol's breath caught in her throat. The lump was back, blocking the way.

They were silent side by side for a while, and when he finally spoke, his voice was even rougher than usual. "For me, it was Dale."

She looked over to him in the dim light. His head was lowered, clearly angled away.

"Don't happen as often anymore, but for a while it was almost every night. Puttin' him down...it had to be done, and I chose to do it, but that don't mean it don't follow me." His breathing increased as he talked.

"I'm sorry," she whispered.

Carol rested her cheek on her knees and watched as he nodded, acknowledging her. They fell quiet again. How had she not known he had nightmares? After the farm fell, they'd been on the road together for months, living practically on top of one another with no privacy whatsoever. Yet she'd never heard or seen anything to make her think he was having trouble sleeping. Maybe she just assumed someone as strong as he seemed to be wouldn't be vulnerable to something as simple as a nightmare. She was a little surprised that he would admit to it in front of her. It warmed her that he had.

But he was clearly uncomfortable. He'd tensed up so much she could feel it. She was almost ready to tell him he didn't need to stay if he didn't want to when he finally spoke again.

"I thought..." he began. Taking a breath, he tried again. "I thought you died. When we found T, we found your gun and your scarf, and we all thought – _I_ thought...you died."

He shifted on the mattress next to her. "That's what I dream now. Not Dale. I dream that I find you in the tombs, but you ain't you anymore, and I have to..." He swallowed hard. "That's how come I heard you tonight. I was already awake."

Reaching over, she brushed her fingers against his. He flinched away from her touch, and her heart ached in her chest.

"It's all right. You found me – I'm okay."

He hesitated, but then brought his hand back to hers, allowing their fingers to touch for just a moment. Scooting out to sit at the edge of the bunk again, he turned toward her. "When you have bad dreams, it's okay to come find me. Wake me up – I'll sit with you."

She smiled, though she knew he probably couldn't see it. "Okay. You, too. Wake me up if you want company."

"'Kay." He stood to leave.

"Would you—" She stopped, not sure she could bring herself to ask.

"What?"

"Um...would you stay until I go back to sleep? Or you could sleep in the top bunk..?" The thought of being alone in her cell again filled her with dread. She added in a whisper, "I don't want you to go."

Silence stretched for what felt like forever. Then he sat back down on the edge of her bed. "Sleep. I'll stay."

"Thank you." She slithered back under her blanket, curling up on her side. Even though he was still and silent, the whole cell felt warmer, more comfortable with him there. She closed her eyes and let herself drift off.

It was the first uninterrupted, restful sleep she had since T-Dog died. Even before she opened her eyes, she could tell it was approaching dawn – grey morning light was filtering in through the grimy prison windows. She started to stretch out the stiffness from sleeping so many hours without moving, but her foot bumped something, and she realized Daryl was still there with her. He'd slept the night sitting at the end of her bunk, slouched against the wall. He'd woken when she nudged him and now blinked sleepily around the cell. When he looked over to her, he gave the tiniest quirk of one side of his mouth.

"You get some sleep?" he asked.

She nodded, bunching her blanket under her chin and feeling awkwardly shy for some reason she couldn't explain. "You survive okay over there? That can't have been comfortable."

He rolled his shoulders as he sat up. "'M fine."

"I'm sorry – I shouldn't have asked you to stay. I didn't mean for you to be miserable all night."

"Said I'm fine." His sharp eyes pierced her in the morning light. "Don't be feelin' guilty about it – don't want you sufferin' alone next time you have bad dreams cuz you feel bad I slept sittin' up. I meant it when I said I'd sit with you."

She nodded mutely.

He stood, joints popping and cracking as he went, finishing with an impressive crackle when he tipped his neck side to side. "Gotta go check on Merle – make sure he ain't burned the place down overnight."

She smiled softly and nodded again. He turned on his heel and left the cell.

While she was happy for Daryl for finding Merle again, she was worried as well. She remembered perfectly well how disruptive Merle had been at the quarry and how awful an influence he was on his brother. She hoped Daryl had come far enough to know he could be his own person now – that he didn't have to be defined in terms of Merle anymore. Hopefully he could see that other people loved and needed him now, too.

Sighing, she pushed back the blanket, and crawled out of bed to find her boots. The Governor was coming. They had to decide what to do about that. She'd made it through the night, and though she wouldn't have to worry about bad dreams until night fell again, they still had a nightmare to face.


	2. Solitary

**I've been picking away at this ever since I posted the first chapter. It finally started flowing tonight.  
**

**This one takes place the following night.**

**Disclaimer: The Walking Dead and all related characters do not belong to me.**

* * *

_Dread lay heavy in his gut as he moved. But he had to move. Had to find her. She'd been swallowed by the tombs, and it was his responsibility to find her and end it. He owed it to her. _

_Searching the tombs was impossible. Each time he turned, something different was behind him. Walls moved, corridors changed, doors that were there one second were gone the next. The floor sucked at his feet, dragging him down and keeping him back from his duty. The walls rippled and bled, changing in front of his eyes. The ceiling bulged downward, threatening to ooze over him, suffocate him, crush him._

_He could hear walkers everywhere, could smell their rancid bodies and fetid breath, but he never saw them. The knot in his gut twisted in fear that she was among them, rotting and hungering for fresh meat. _

_Finally, he could hear it – a creaking door as it bumped up against the body holding it closed. Nausea washed through him, because he knew what was behind the door. He followed the sound because he had to. He followed it because he knew it would mean the end. When he ended her existence, it would end his own, because he couldn't BE without her._

_Slogging forward through the resisting hallways, he pushed on toward the sound. It grew louder and louder until it rang in his head, obscuring all other senses. Creaking and bumping. Creak. Bump. Finally he could see it in front of him. Solitary. His skin tried to crawl back down the corridor without him. As much as he was driven to find her, he was afraid. He didn't want to find her – seeing her like..._that_...would destroy him. The dread inside him curdled and churned, and he swallowed hard to keep it down. _

_And just like that, he was _there_ with the door towering in front of him. The metal was cold and black, absorbing the warmth of his body, sucking at his very life. He feared the door, but he had to open it. Clenching the knife in his teeth, he gripped the edge of the door and pulled. And pulled. Finally, it started to move, swinging slow and heavy outward. As it swept past him, he grabbed the knife and prepared himself for what he knew he would have to do. The handle of the knife was slippery from the tears it had intercepted on his cheek. Tightening his grip, he stepped forward, peering into the swirling darkness of the cell._

_A shape moved in the blackness._

* * *

It was nearly pitch black in the prison. What little moon there was tonight wasn't up yet, and precious little light filtered in through the tall cell block windows. Carol hadn't been able to fall asleep yet and shifted restlessly under her blanket, trying to find a place that allowed her mind to shut down enough for her body to relax into sleep. She'd made a game with herself, counting her breaths and willing her conscious mind to slip further back in her brain, hoping she might trick herself into dropping off, but so far, she'd just frustrated herself.

She finally sat up, shivering in the cold air, to look for her boots. Maybe she could find herself something warm to drink in the kitchen. There was probably still some of last night's soup stock left. Tugging on her long sweater and picking up a small flashlight, she slipped out of her cell to walk softly to the common area.

Cranking up the camp stove, she put a small amount of stock in a pan to heat. It only took a few minutes since there was so little of it. She shut off the stove and poured the soup into a coffee mug to take with her. Breathing in the steam, she took a sip, loving the warm feeling as it pooled in her belly. It was getting so cold at night lately. She never liked the cold.

Picking up her flashlight again, she headed back to the cell block, intending to finish her soup and try again to get some sleep. But as she entered the cell block there was more than just the usual rustling and snoring from the sleeping residents. She was sure she heard something else. Listening carefully, she tried to figure out where it was coming from. She followed the sounds up the stairs to the cell at the end. Daryl's cell.

"Mmmngh. Hf. No! Ummm." He was mumbling in his sleep. She couldn't make out most of it, but the 'no' and the frown she could see in the beam of the flashlight told her it wasn't a good dream.

"Daryl?" she said softly. Maybe she could wake him enough to shake him out of the bad dream and let him sleep peacefully again.

"No!" He started shifting in his sleep, but was thoroughly tangled in his blankets, his feet and one arm twisted up and trapped.

Not wanting to invade his space, she took a small step into the cell before trying again. "Daryl? It's me – wake up. You're having a dream."

His shifting increased, and now more resembled thrashing as he fought with his blanket. The murmuring was punctuated with whimpers now.

She bit her lip. Deciding to ignore any potential hurt feelings over privacy invasion, she moved into the cell, leaving her flashlight and mug of broth on the stack of boxes just inside the door. She didn't want to touch him in case he lashed out in his sleep, so she spoke a little louder this time, crouched at the side of his bunk.

"Daryl, it's me. You're dreaming."

With a jerk of his head and a sharp inhalation, he stared into her face, but didn't seem to be really seeing her. His eyes were glassy and a little frightening in their fury. His free hand snapped out and grabbed the side of her neck roughly. "No! It ain't right."

"It's okay, Daryl, you're having a dream." His grip on her tightened until it hurt, but she didn't try to pull away.

"I can't do it," he moaned. There was pain in his voice, turning it ragged.

"Please wake up? Everything's okay, just wake up."

She could see the change in his face as he came truly awake. There was confusion as he recognized she was there in his cell, and then he clamped down on any expression he might have had as he yanked his hand away from her. She moved back, far enough he wouldn't feel threatened in the aftermath of the dream and just enough to be out of his reach. Even though his hand was gone, she could still feel it on her skin.

"You were dreaming." She felt compelled to explain what she was doing intruding on his personal space.

He nodded, then scrubbed his fingers through his hair and dragged his hand over his face. Looking down at himself, he started untwisting the blanket from his limbs.

She continued her apology. "I'm sorry. I couldn't sleep, and I heard you when I came back from the kitchen."

Once he got his bedding sorted, he sat up but didn't look at her.

"Do you want some soup? It's just broth, really." She took the mug from the box and offered it across the gulf between them.

He turned his eyes to her finally, but they were the narrow, guarded eyes she remembered from the quarry. It hurt to see those eyes again. Just when she was about to pull the mug back, he reached for it, careful not to let their fingers touch. He gave her a barely there nod of thanks as he accepted it. Focusing all his attention on the mug, he sipped at the soup and kept quiet.

The cold concrete where she sat on the floor was quickly sapping her body heat. Eventually she started to shiver, so she pushed herself to her feet and turned to leave him to his soup.

"Stay." His voice was low and rough, and she felt it wash over her skin like a breeze.

She nodded. "But I can't sit on the floor anymore. It's freezing."

Pulling his feet up from the end of the bed, he turned to lean up against the wall like they had done yesterday. "There's another blanket on the top bunk if you want it."

She dragged the blanket down and bundled up before arranging herself to lean against the wall near him. Neither of them spoke, and she wondered if they would just spend the whole night here wide awake and silent. If that's what happened, she decided that was okay, since she wasn't sleeping anyway. He handed the mug back to her, and they continued passing it back and forth, finishing the now lukewarm broth.

Some time after she'd set the empty mug on the floor, he dropped his head and spoke to his knees. "You ain't gonna ask?"

Pressing her lips together, she studied him for just a moment. "No."

His head lifted so he could search her face.

"You'll tell me when you want to. IF you want to. I know that."

He nodded and dropped his eyes again. They sat in silence. Carol pulled the blanket tighter around herself and shivered. The weather had turned, and she was beginning to realize how terribly cold the prison was going to be this winter. Assuming they survived that long.

"You okay?" he asked her suddenly.

"Just cold."

"You said you couldn't sleep." His voice had softened.

She shrugged.

"Dreams?" he asked.

She shook her head. "Haven't slept enough to dream."

He grunted a response and chewed on his lip. His eyes traveled over the room, looking at everything but her. Finally his eyes flicked her way for just a second before returning to glare at his knees when he saw she was looking back. He started picking at one of his thumbnails.

"The dream. It was the one I told you about last night. That fuckin' cell in solitary. It's- I just- Fuck!" he spat before falling silent, scowling down at his hands.

Tugging to rearrange her blanket, Carol turned to face him, leaning her shoulder against the wall. "I know it won't stop the nightmare, but I'm okay because of you. I didn't turn because you found me. You saved me. Again."

His eyes flashed fire. "And what the fuck happens when I ain't there the next time, huh? I can't always be there to save your ass! If you fuckin' die and leave me alone-" He bit his words off abruptly and jumped to his feet. "Out. Go on, git. I don't need you holdin' my goddamn hand here. Just go back to bed."

She knew the venom in his words was fueled by fear – residual fear from the nightmare and fear of leaving himself vulnerable – but it still stung. She stood and tried to hand the blanket back to him, but he brushed her off.

"Take it. Just get the fuck gone." He wouldn't meet her eyes.

She picked up her mug and flashlight, turning back to him in the doorway. "Good night."

He huffed through his nose.

Carol tried to ignore the prickling behind her eyes as she made her way back to her cell. She crawled into bed, settling in to try again to get some sleep. At least now she was warm enough with the extra blanket, but the soup wasn't sitting well in her belly anymore.

She wasn't sure how much time had passed with her tossing restlessly on her bunk when she heard the faintest scrape of a footstep. Daryl was there, a hovering silhouette in her doorway. He stayed silent, even though he must have known she was awake from her rustling movements.

Finally she whispered, "What?"

He shuffled a bit on his feet. "'M sorry for bein' an asshole."

"I know." He was always sorry for being an asshole. Maybe someday he would stop having to be sorry by not acting like an asshole in the first place.

"Still can't sleep?"

She sighed. "No."

"Me neither." He fidgeted around some more, and she suspected he was probably struggling to find a way to say whatever he was really here to say. She waited, but he said nothing.

"Will you stay?" she asked after he remained quiet for a minute. With how quickly he stepped into her cell, she was sure that was it – the thing he was here for.

Without a word, he wrapped his blanket around his shoulders in a swirl and sat at the end of her bunk in the same place he'd been last night. He was reserved at the best of times, but it seemed he was even less interested in conversation than usual. Carol didn't mind.

She bunched her blankets up under her chin and curled up on her side. She didn't feel the urge to toss and turn with him there, so she gratefully let herself slip toward oblivion.

Before she fell fully asleep, she was startled when she felt Daryl touch her foot through the blanket. Only half-awake, she thought she might have dreamed it, but it happened again later. He touched her foot for just a moment, as though reassuring himself she was still there. Eventually, she dropped off, and if he touched her again, she never knew it.

She slept soundly with no dreams that she remembered, but in the morning, she woke in her cell alone.


	3. Merle and the Mouse

**This is the last chapter. **

**Set the night after they bring the bus of refugees from Woodbury.**

**Disclaimer: The Walking Dead and all related characters do not belong to me. I do this for love, not money.**

* * *

_He was in the woods, stepping softly through the underbrush on the trail of a large animal with tracks he didn't recognize, eyes alert for any sign of danger. He started to think something wasn't right when the leaves of the trees stirred up in a breeze he couldn't feel. On he went, following the creature, wondering what it could be. There was never anything different in this corner of Georgia. Nothing in these woods he didn't know like his own heart._

_As he approached a wide clearing, he could see movement on the far side of it, but couldn't tell what it was. The light was strange, casting odd shadows over everything, making familiar things seem off somehow. Sticking to the trees, he worked his way around the field, keeping downwind so the mystery creature couldn't smell him coming. The closer he got, the more reluctant his feet were to continue on. He hated that he didn't know what it was. It was unfamiliar, and that made him uneasy and a little afraid. He stopped, suddenly realizing he didn't _want _to know what it was. But when he turned to go back, he wasn't in the woods anymore, but a house. _

_His gut clenched as he glanced around the dingy room, the tattered furniture and smoke stained walls just as he remembered them from childhood. The stink of stale tobacco and old beer made him queasy. But he could tell the house was empty and had been for a while. Even in a house as run-down as this one, he could feel the neglect in the stagnant air. The knot in his belly relaxed a little at finding himself alone._

_The musty room was stifling, so he went to open the windows. But when he went to put down his crossbow, it wasn't in his hands. Shrugging, he went around the rooms, opening as many windows as he could, though some of them were stuck and wouldn't budge. Suddenly he heard a noise coming from somewhere in the house. Maybe it wasn't completely empty after all._

_Wondering where the hell his crossbow had gone, he went silently from room to room until he found the source of the noise. There was a mouse in the kitchen, scurrying and scratching, and nosing into everything. He pushed open the outside door and picked up a broom. It was just a mouse being a mouse – no need to kill it. Gently, he shooed the little critter with the broom until it scampered out the door, but when he turned around, it was back, running along the base of the kitchen cupboards._

_He frowned and herded it back out the door, pushing it off the rickety porch before turning back into the house. But there it was again, gnawing at the corner of a case of shitty beer. This time he swept it out and slammed the door closed before it could possibly run back in, but when he turned around, it was there, sitting directly in the center of the room, nibbling on a crumb of something it had found. Its little black eyes seemed to be focused right on him, and its whiskers twitched and shivered as it regarded him. _

"_Get lost!" he growled, pushing it out the door with more force this time._

_Anger flared when he turned to find it right where it had been moments ago, staring at him with those bright little eyes. It ran the other way this time when he went after it with the broom, leading him on a merry chase around the house before he managed to toss it out the front door this time._

_And when he went back to the kitchen for one of those beers, that fucking mouse was there again, on a grubby countertop this time, watching him and washing its face with its paws._

"_Why the fuck won't you leave?" he shouted. It was pissing him off to no end, but he had no desire to hurt it. As he stepped forward to sweep it out of the house one more time, a voice from behind stopped him cold._

"_Well, hey there, little brother!"_

_His stomach dropped. This wasn't right. Merle was dead. The Governor had killed him, and Daryl had had to put him down._

"_The hell you doin' with that broom, brother? Shouldn't you be prancin' around squealin' on the tabletop with your skirts rucked up around your knees?" The voice jumped up to a falsetto. "Eeek! A mouse! Oh, oh! Saaave meeeeee!"_

_Daryl spun around, but Merle wasn't there. His skin prickled. "Where are you?"_

"_Now why ain't you just put that varmint outta its fuckin' misery, boy? Why you tryin' to run it off? You gotta end that shit 'fore it gets outta hand. Mighty hunter gone all bleedin' heart over an itty bitty mouse?" There was mocking laughter under the words._

_Daryl could sense his brother's presence, but couldn't quite see him – just a creeping shadow in the corner of his eye. "Where the fuck are you, Merle? Quit fuckin' around!" _

"_Mouse'll just come back, dummy! Don't you know nothin'? I guess you **is** as stupid as daddy always said ya was."_

"_Goddammit, Merle, I know you ain't here. You're dead!" He craned his head, trying to find where the voice came from._

"_You can't just chase off a critter like that, little brother."_

_It came from right behind him this time. He spun and jerked back in horror. Merle was there, but it wasn't his brother. It was the creature he'd found at the granary – the monster that had been feeding on torn flesh and would have done the same to him if it'd had the chance. Blood drooled from the bullet hole in its chest. Its face was pulverized, as it had been after Daryl had stabbed it. But still it spoke, words coming crisp and clear from the ruined face._

"_Little mouse will always find her way back. Always gonna be here."_

_And then it lunged, tearing into his neck and shoulder, ripping chunks of flesh by the mouthful. Daryl fell back, hitting the ground with a grunt, scrambling backward to get away from the thing biting him. It kept coming and coming, and though he kicked and shoved, he couldn't get rid of it. He screamed at it, begging it to stop, but it took piece after piece until there was almost nothing of him left. _

_Then its head turned, its attention focused on the mouse that had come running. It reached a hand out to catch the little squeaking thing, bringing it up toward its mangled mouth._

"_No!" Daryl shouted. "NO!"_

* * *

Carol crept along the walkway toward Daryl's cell carrying her blanket and a little wooden chair. She strained her ears, but the rustles and sighs she heard were from other places in the cell block. There was nothing from the cell at the end, so she moved a little closer and listened some more.

Worry chewed at the edges of her mind. There hadn't been time to talk with him in the last two horrible days. So much had happened yesterday. The Governor. Andrea.

Merle.

And today had been chaos with trying to provide water, food, and places to sleep for the thirty-two Woodbury refugees. In the few moments she'd been able to speak with him, Daryl had seemed outwardly unaffected. He'd been cranky and snappish, but that wasn't anything unusual. After Merle died he'd immediately fought for the prison and then run off to Woodbury to try to end the threat of the Governor for good. And today, he had worked like a man possessed, helping to get their newest residents squared away. He was acting perfectly normal, and that was unsettling.

Maggie had told her once that he was like that the day he thought Carol had died. He'd thrown himself fully into whatever needed to be done then, too – keeping himself busy so he couldn't think too much.

Around the time everyone started crashing into bed, she went by his cell to check on him and say good night. He barked at her to go away – he was tired. So she'd returned to her cell and listened to the prison's inhabitants settling in for the night. They were all exhausted, but she couldn't sleep. After everything seemed quiet, she'd picked up the chair from her cell, her blanket, and a small flashlight and started making her way quietly toward Daryl's cell. He didn't want her hovering, but she needed to be nearby. She couldn't explain why – not even to herself – but she couldn't stay away. Not tonight.

When she finally reached his door, she listened for a good five minutes, but heard nothing but steady, even breathing. Certain he was asleep, she placed the chair on the walkway just outside the door and sat, wrapping her natty blanket around her shoulders. She listened to the soft rustles and snores that echoed in whispers through the cell block and thought about those they'd lost yesterday. She cried for Andrea who had suffered such a terrible death after putting her trust in the wrong man. And she cried for the loss of Merle. Though she didn't really know him, he was Daryl's brother, and he'd proven himself to be a better man than most had given him credit for. His death had bought them a chance to survive. He died, and they lived. For now, anyway.

Wiping her cheeks with the edge of her blanket, she glanced into Daryl's cell. In the darkness she could only make out the general shape of him on his bunk. She leaned her head back against the wall and must have dozed off, because the next thing she knew, she was on her feet looking around wildly with her blanket in a heap at her feet, and her heart pounding.

"NO!" The rough cry came again.

Relief washed through her as she realized what had startled her. Slipping in to the dark cell with her little flashlight, she tried to wake him as she had a week ago.

"Daryl, you're dreaming."

As before, he didn't wake, but twitched and shifted in his sleep. She sat on the end of the bunk by his feet, well out of his reach. She tried again, putting a hand on his foot and shaking gently. "Come on, it's time to wake up. It's just a nightmare."

He jerked halfway upright and scrambled away from her touch, thumping into the wall at the head of the bed. "Merle, don't!"

"It's okay," she murmured, trying not to spook him again.

"Stop! Merle!" he yelped, slapping at something that wasn't there. Then his movements wound down as though he realized there was nothing to strike. "Merle?"

"It's just me." She moved up to sit closer, but didn't touch him.

The confusion in his eyes changed to pain, and it ripped out her heart. His voice sounded more like that of a little boy than of the man she knew. "Merle's dead. He died."

"Yes."

His face crumpled, and he hung his head, eyes squeezed tight against the tears that pushed their way out. He shook with small, silent sobs, and Carol was torn, unsure of how to offer comfort, or even if she should. But then it didn't matter, because he crawled forward and curled up into himself with his head on her thigh. He still shook, and she could feel his hot tears soak into the loose cotton pants she wore. For an instant, she was too shocked to move, but then she had to do something. Anything. She couldn't let him suffer like that alone.

She stroked his hair, tentatively at first, but when he didn't flinch away, she combed her fingers through, smoothing it back away from his face. Her other hand made soothing circles on his shoulder and upper arm while she murmured to him, tears rolling down her own cheeks for the pain he was in. She kept talking to him softly, hoping that even if the words weren't comforting, they would let him know she was here for him.

Eventually, his tears subsided, but he didn't pull away, so she kept up the gentle touches, but fell silent. After a while, she felt him breathe a deep sigh.

"Ain't right he's gone. I just got the bastard back." She felt his shoulder begin to tense up as he spoke. To keep things from getting too uncomfortable for him, she eased back a bit and moved her hands back to the mattress, letting him choose where he wanted to be without feeling pressured. He left his head resting on her thigh and brought one hand up to pluck at the soft material of her pant leg. The dark wet spot from his tears felt cold against her skin now. She shivered and broke into goosebumps.

"Stupid fucker had to go and get himself killed doin' that shit. 'f he was here, I'd kick his fuckin' ass."

She looked down at him for a moment. "He did what he did because he loved you."

"Asshole didn't love nobody but himself." His voice was raw with anger and pain. "He always was a selfish prick, stompin' through life like fuckin' Godzilla, doin' whatever he wanted and fuck anybody else. And I followed his ass around like a goddamn lapdog lettin' him drag me into all kindsa trouble and treat me like shit. All he ever cared about was gettin' drunk, gettin' high, and gettin' his dick wet. He never gave two fucks about me!"

"I don't deny that Merle was an asshole, but that doesn't mean he didn't love you."

"Well, _fuck_ him."

"No, thank you. He's not my type," she said with a soft smile.

For a split second, Daryl didn't react, but then with a huff that might have been laughter, the tension bled from his body. She brought one hand back to his head, rubbing the long hair at the back of his neck between her fingers. Her stomach churned while she tried to decide whether or not to speak. Even though she didn't want to talk about it, she forced the words out.

"I know it's not the same at all, but when Ed died...I was confused. It was like feeling everything at once. I was so relieved he was dead and grateful that Sophia would be safe from him. I was even happy that he'd suffered. I felt guilty for wanting him gone and for wishing he'd suffered more. I was angry. I was scared. But what blindsided me was that I grieved for him. He made my life a living hell. He was a monster. But he was my husband – I hated him, but I'd loved him once, too, and all of that was still in there somewhere."

She realized her fingers were shaking as she spoke, so she pulled her hand away from him again, hoping he hadn't noticed. "So even though what you're going through is different, I understand how confusing it can be. Just know that whatever you're feeling is okay. It won't get better, but it'll get easier to live with over time."

He was quiet as he chewed over what she said, stilling the fingers that had been plucking at her pant leg.

There they sat, thinking their own thoughts together. After a time, Carol's leg started to go a bit numb. She shifted a little under him trying to relieve the pins and needles, and he immediately pulled away and sat up, not looking at her. Taking that to mean he was done with their conversation, she tamped down her bruised feelings at his retreat, and got up to go fetch her blanket from the walkway where it had dropped. Wrapping the blanket around her shoulders, she came back and paused in the middle of the cell.

"Do you want some water? Or tea? Something to eat?"

He shook his head, eyes hiding behind his long hair.

"Is there anything I can do for you?" she asked, since he still seemed to be waiting for something.

This time he nodded, so she perched on the end of his bunk. He pulled the pillow out from behind him and tossed it over to her. "Stay here?"

Her face warmed. "Of course."

After she kicked off her boots, the two of them shuffled around, both ending up more or less curled up on their sides – each squashed at their own end of the bed, trying to make more room for the other, which left a big gap in the middle. Carol pressed her cheek into the pillow and closed her eyes. It smelled like him, which caused a little flutter in her belly. He'd asked her to stay, but she wasn't sure she would be able to sleep.

Once they were settled, they were quiet for a while. But then Daryl said, "It wasn't all about Merle. The dream."

With her eyes closed, she felt cocooned – his scent and his velvety voice wrapping around her. It felt good. Safe. If he was willing to talk, she wouldn't interrupt.

"Don't remember it all, but I dreamed about a mouse, too. Stubborn thing. Didn't matter what I did, I couldn't chase it off. It always came back, that little mouse."

"Doesn't sound like too much of a nightmare," she said softly.

"It wasn't. Not that part."

She waited a bit, but he didn't add anything more. Before long, she felt sleep creeping up on her in her cozy cocoon.

After a peaceful night, she drifted awake feeling warm and safe. They'd both moved during the night, stretching out of their cramped corners. Daryl had sprawled flat on his back, and she found herself still mostly at her end of the bed, curled on her side about a foot away from him. One of her hands lay flat against the side of his hip. One of his rested lightly on the back of her head. She closed her eyes again and kept still so as not to wake him. But she felt his fingers curl against the back of her neck and knew he'd already been awake.

Since he wasn't pulling away, neither did she. "No nightmares?"

"Nope."

"Did your little mouse come back?"

His fingers brushed her neck again. "She never left."


End file.
